


A Piacere

by bright_roaring_blue



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Bay Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bright_roaring_blue/pseuds/bright_roaring_blue
Summary: A PiacerePlayed at your pleasure. The performer need not follow the rhythm strictly.
Relationships: Splinter (TMNT) & Original Female Character(s), Splinter (TMNT)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Poco a Poco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poco a Poco  
> Little by little, gradually

The final ringing note drifted up across the courtyard. Something loosened in his chest, more than air: he’d hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, until just now.

Hefting the sack of scavenged food over his shoulder, Splinter melted back into the night. His young sons were at home, sleeping and safe.

He wouldn't tarry again.

“ _’allo?_ ”

She was safe enough on her balcony, but that man over on the roof - was he going to jump, last time? Was he going to jump now? Should she call the police? “ _Monsieur_ _?_ Please, what - why are you up there?”

“Forgive me. I do not mean to intrude.” Across the twenty feet of empty air, she heard him clear his throat carefully. “You play most beautifully.”

“Thank you.” The nights were getting cooler, and it was not good for the violin, but if it kept him from taking the short way down - Rosamonde offered boldly, “I will play again next Wednesday, if you would join me?”

“I - shall. If I may.”

All week, he'd been unable to shake the passionate melody. “The piece from last week. Would you play it again?”

“Vivaldi? Of course.” Her words were lilting and relieved, genuine. “I would like that very much.”

Lifting the instrument, she made some small adjustment, and began to fill the courtyard with her ringing notes.

“ _Four_ _boys?!_ Should I offer a congratulation, or a stiff drink?”

Her audience’s chuckle stilted like the sound itself surprised him. “Some days, I am uncertain myself. Yet I cannot imagine life without them.”

Four boys. Six years of age. She blew a low breath and commended him soberly, “You are a very brave man.”

Mirth came louder this time, an almost laugh that delighted her. “Perhaps. Perhaps.”

The inflections, the way Sam would weigh his words, it made her think English was not _his_ first language either. Conversations came easier with him now, and over the past few months she'd listened joyfully, gleaning a number of things about her audience of one.

 _Dedicated father. Bonsai enthusiast. Self-educated. Deeply philosophical_ , and a _Good listener._

She’d caught his silhouette free-climbing the side of the adjacent building and almost died of fright. _Unusually athletic. Active,_ though with four boys, it hardly came as a surprise.

And she’d only recently realized: _Living rough_.

“May I ask - what are your sons’ sizes?”

Splinter was strangely and suddenly wary. “May I ask why you would inquire?”

“For Christmas, of course. I know you are - _non_ , how you say -” she cursed softly under her breath, finding words, “You are not _keen_ for joining Emilia and I for festivities, but your boys - I would like to give them a small something. Pajamas are our tradition, a treat, small toys - none with the lights and the noises and the batteries, I swear it.”

Her generosity warmed him. “If it would please you.”

“Thank you. I have - _un moment_ \- here.” Unearthed pencil and paper from her violin case, he listened as she creaked back into her chair. “Would it offend if I asked your sizes, also?”

Strange heat pricked his eyes; he blinked it back. “It would not offend, no.”

When she was a child, she believed in fairy tales. Not the gentle, modern sort: the kind with teeth. Dangers there were always obvious, so the darkness lurking in the average person, “has taken me unaware more than it should, I think,” she admitted with a twinge of shame.

“True monsters rarely have distinguishing features.” His pause was cautious, concerned. “Have… I do not wish to pry, my dear, but if you would ever speak of it, I would listen.”

 _Non._ “ _Merci._ But for now, how can I think of unhappiness? With this warm spring air,” and the humidity making yarn of her hair, and the wide night between them - but she enjoyed this very much, mostly because Sam was, “such excellent company.”

“Hmm.” He graciously changed course. “And this grim tale… your students will perform it?”

“It is a musical. The Disney one, with the dancing and the costumes. They are so enthusiastic,” she scrubbed the exhaustion from her face, “but children are children. And _ninety of them_ at once… I am, how you say? _Fresh meat._ ”

His laugh was pure and true. It lifted her heart, even across the dark, wide span.

Two years of conversation, and they were still learning from one another.

His violinist was sounding more natural in English, and Splinter’s own understanding of the human niceties grew apace. Occasionally, though, he found himself baffled. “You came to harm,” he frowned, admonishing himself as much as her: the tale of how she’d fallen off the auditorium stage chasing a bullish, mischievous student, “that should not be amusing.”

“Not usually,” she allowed ruefully, “but it was only damage to my pride. Humour is an acceptable response.”

He shook his head, mostly to himself.

“I sent to his parents a stern letter, with a warning in his file.”

“Simple reproach will not deter one so driven toward mischief.” _That_ lesson he had learned all too well.

“What would you suggest?”

“I would give him the instrument.”

 _That_ sound was nearly rude. _“Quand les poules auront des dents -”_

“To hold, for the duration of the day. No classwork. No participation. No sitting. No play. Only the exercise of holding the violin with the proper form, perfectly still. In his boredom, the child will either grow curious about the instrument, or vow to never touch it again.” He nodded to himself. “Either would serve as an excellent lesson.”

“I see.” Her laugh broke over the courtyard, sharp and clear and true. “Sam - _Sam,_ you are _diabolical!_ ”

Apparently, some insults could be used as niceties, too.

“If I hear this _pika-pika_ one more time, I will throw the game in the damn Hudson.”

“Such language,” she teased.

“It is _warranted_ , I assure you.”

For a moment, Splinter closed his eyes and allowed himself to be transported to peace. There was no looming threat of discovery and capture and worse. There was no pervasive stink of humanity’s leftovers. There was no cold seeping into his fur at his collar. There was no bickering over skateboards or showers or computers or _who touched my stuff_.

There were only careful notes vibrating in his chest through open air, and the kind musician sharing their wonder with him.

“ _One child?_ ”

“One _teenager_ , at breakfast.”

“ _One_.” The muggy dark muffled his shocked reply. “I feel as though I am staring upon my doom.”

“And _four_ next month, for you.” Poor man. “Do you know, Knudsen’s Produce, how you say - they offer the _bulk discount._ ”

It abashed him to learn that she had originally thought he intended himself harm. Learning Rosamonde had first played in hopes that he would not was strangely - it did not taint the experience for him, only - 

Splinter was not entirely certain _what_ that made him feel.

She’d been reworking the fingerings for the past few minutes when he interrupted quietly from above. “A new piece?”

“Yes.” She thumbed the neck of her instrument, hesitating. “It brings you to mind, for me.”

“Hmm?”

It was a study in intensity. Rife with double stops, exacting harmonics, carefully punctuated phrases, it challenged reach, bow hand, technical skill, the performer’s very musicality. The work was complex, focused, incredibly ambitious to perform. 

And yet. The melody flowed like comfortable conversation: she found herself moving beyond muscle memory, beyond rote memorization. No longer pressing herself into the music, as she played it drifted into her, intangible, invisible, yet somehow beating her heart through empty air.

Would he understand? Should she say?

 _Non_. “Yes,” she finished lamely. “It is quite complex.”

“I would be honored to hear it.” His voice was rich, sincere. “If I may?”

“Of course.” Rosamonde didn’t even have to turn the page back: she merely repositioned her bow, closed her eyes, began anew.

“You bring your music outside, most weeks.” Splinter had always wondered, “What inspired you to do so?”

She was quiet for such a time, he wondered if he should apologize. “You need not answer.”

“Emilia is profoundly deaf.”

“Hmm.” He offered nothing more, simply waited.

“She had more hearing as a child. Liked music - while I played the violin, she would sit under my chair, or in my lap - with her hand, she would press over the f-holes to feel the vibrations. _Very_ difficult for me to practice, but I cherished it so.”

Her smile was warm, if bittersweet, soft on her unlined face. The past decade had barely aged her, though with humans, he found years difficult to judge.

“At fourteen, she began…” a small movement, a cage of fingers shaking over her ear, “losing more of the range of sound. _So angry_ , and we came to New York and I thought - a change, it will be good. And then the hormones.” She gave a gallic sigh, “And _American boys_ , and the _you will never understand me._ Anytime I would practice at home, it enraged her, so when she had friends here to visit - I gave her space, took some for myself.”

“It is necessary and healthy,” he agreed.

“That was when you and I made our acquaintance.” Her strange, wistful note made him frown, before she continued, “Do you know, I was very guilty over our rendezvous at first. Though I was never far,” she waved toward the empty living room behind her, “and she had much fun with her friends. Very safe, and little of the… _dramatics_.”

“We must step back from them occasionally.” Wisdom he was struggling with currently. “Emilia seems to have benefited from the experience.”

“Yes. She is - _we_ are much better together, now that she has had room to grow. And how are your boys this week?”

Splinter bit back a hiss. The instinct only angered him more. “They are being punished.”

“For?”

“Sneaking out. All of them.”

She made a sound of disapproval, softened by, “So very unlike them.”

Indeed. “I forbid them to go up - uptown, and if the disobedience was enough not, they attempted to conceal it from me.” A first, and the attempt - that hurt his heart still. Her empathy gave him strength to confess, “For something like this, I do not know where to begin, or _how._ ”

“This _jaunt,_ it was for pleasure?”

“They will not say.” 

“I see. Sam, I do not wish to… diminish this, but it is _normal_.”

“Hmm.”

“They are good boys. And they are so because you are a good father,” she reassured him across the dark, “and a clever man. You will get the truth of this, and invent, of course, a diabolical penance.” Her warm chuckle was nearly conspiratory. “Something which is a lesson as much as discipline. It is your way.”

It gave him a small thrill, that this woman was a friend and knew him so well. “ _Fifteen._ This year has been a trial.”

“I wish to say it grows easier.” Her elbow braced the balcony rail, and she cupped her chin with an amused sigh. “But you have _four of them, mon cher._ I can only wish you patience.”

“They were entirely too much!”

That _inseam_ was entirely too much. It was more than her bust - how tall would _Sam_ be, if his son was nearly two whole meters? “It is a _gift, mon cher._ That is not for you to say.”

“Rosamonde -”

“Were you to purchase them, were you to _order_ him to wear them? He would _never_. He would - he would run through the snow in _basketball shorts_ with nothing but spite to keep him warm.”

“As he already does.”

“And he will _continue_ , if you order him like a child! But as a gift from a friend, especially trousers that are to his fit and taste - it is _much_ more likely he will wear them, if he sees this as his own choice.”

“But by no means a guarantee,” Sam grumbled, “and we cannot stop him from cutting them all off at the knee like some… common ruffian.”

Such language. “Of course. But that would, how you say, _invalidate_ the extreme utility of the extra pockets, and on him look _ridiculous_ , but - that would be his choice, as well.”

It was long minutes while Sam mulled that over. “I see you have given this a great deal of thought.”

“I have fought this war, and lost,” she offered sagely. “Benefit from my wisdom.”

“Then I will pay you for the garments. I insist.”

“They are a gift.”

“Hmm. A gift, with teeth.” There it was, that sigh of equal amusement and capitulation. “Perhaps a lesson for me, as well.”

She smiled into the black. “I knew you were a clever man.”

As she often did, she wondered if Sam was smiling back.

“My youngest son is courting.” Her soft french curse made him smile. “They are very much in love.”

“Yes, it is always _very much in love_ , at first. Do we approve of this courtship?”

“It is not a match I would have imagined,” he admitted. “However, I cannot deny how well they suit. The lady has long been a friend of the family, and - well. I believe there will be an understanding between them soon.”

“ _No!_ They are too young for all that, surely?”

“The lady is not. She is, in fact, several years older -”

“Sam -” His sensitive ears swiveled at how thin and sharp her breath had gone: Rosamonde stared out toward him in the dark, her entire body taut with focus. “Has she always been… _close?_ With him?”

“Dearest, _no_.” He’d forgotten - thoughtless, _careless -_ “Neither acted on their feelings until Michelangelo reached his majority, and I scented nothing improper passing between them.” Splinter winced at his slip, but swore, “He is not being taken advantage of.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Her left fingers moved with reckless haste, silent music meant to soothe. Splinter’s paws itched to take her hands and he offered what comfort he could. “They genuinely care for one another. It is plain for all to see.”

“Yes. Of course, but, _several_ _years_ \- she is closer to my age, then?”

Perhaps, but he shouldn’t say. “You are still in the bloom of youth, are you not?”

“ _Flattery_ ,” she accused without heat.

“I speak only the truth.” 

Splinter had once seen her in a sunset glow. He hadn’t thought the rose and cream of her features could be improved, but the dying day cast her in red and gold like a painting by one of his sons’ namesakes, and for a breathless moment, his every thought wrapped around the word _exquisite._

The image still burned brightly in his memory, after years of moonless nights. “You are as lovely now as ever. Time will only make you more so.”

She chased a hand over her face and murmured appreciation before sobering. “I do not _like_ this, Sam. _Twenty_ is - even if Michelangelo thinks this is love _,_ he’s still so _young._ ”

Yes. His sons, they all were, and in their short years had faced much strife and constant danger. Nothing in their life was certain, not even a tomorrow: perhaps that was lending Splinter a bit more room for understanding in this regard. “I am not concerned by their eagerness to begin a life together - they will be good to one another,” he was certain of it. “But there is another matter.”

“With the _young lady?_ ”

“ _Rosamonde_.”

“My apologies.” Again, those fingers glanced her mouth, as if trying to physically withhold her objections. “I’m sorry - please. Go on.”

“Michelangelo has been oddly reticent with his brothers, in regards to this development.” It went against his son’s nature to be so secretive, or at least, he had once thought. “I would think that he would be most eager to share his joy with them, but - he has not.”

“I see.” She sighed deeply. “Michelangelo - he is a good boy, if impetuous, a bit.” 

Splinter felt impetuous was too mild a descriptor: however exacting she was with her own person, she was unfailingly gentle with others. Her concern, her kindness, they warmed his heart.

“If he will marry this woman one day, he would not wish the relationship to be seen as, how you say? _Folly_. To boast carelessly would be very much counter to that.”

“Hmm,” he nodded in the dark. “Not reticence then, but… restraint. He is -” 

“Growing up.” Her words were barely a whisper. “They were just _children_ , yesterday, with the Oshkosh and rocket ships, and now they are _courting_ and I have not - I thought we would have more time.”

She broke off with exasperation. “Rosamonde?”

“ _Un moment,”_ came was muted by her small palms. “I cannot - _s'il te plait_.”

Long moments passed in silence between them as he watched her gather calm. “They will be good to one another?”

His earlier words, and yes, he repeated them once more. 

“And you approve?”

“I do.”

“Then I am content.” She lifted her face, and there was a bittersweet pride shining in her smile. “I am happy for him. I am so happy _for you_ , _mon cher_. Truly.”

Splinter swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you, dearest.”

“Emilia has been offered the position in Paris.”

“That is excellent news.”

“It is. Yes.”

That pause did not inspire confidence. “Ah. And, are we congratulating her?”

“Yes, of course, yes. She is full of joy. _Overjoyed_. It is what she has always wanted.”

And yet, “You worry for her.”

Rosamonde chuckled. It was not a happy sound. “Paris is Paris. Another big city, _always_ _loud_ and busy and with the crime-rate always climbing, _climbing_ , and _the_ _people_ ,” she gave a disgusted shrug, “but it is home for her. Only - I am being selfish, I think. I shall miss her terribly, so far away.”

“I understand the internet brings a great many things closer, including our loved ones.”

Rosamonde barked a wet, harsh laugh. “You cannot embrace across _Skype_ , Sam. Or a courtyard, for that matter!”

It was what she had once called a sforzando: a note bubbling over with sharp force. The yearning in her voice slashed at him, left him breathless. “You are upset.”

“Oh, Sam, I - that was unfair. I apologize, I am - tired.” She patted her face where she thought he couldn’t see. “I am not fit for company tonight, I think. Shall we see -” Her breath hitched. “Next week?”

His chest wound with tension like razor wire at the shake of her shoulders. “Of course.” He cleared his throat and tried for placid, reassuring tones. “Rest, and - please give Emilia my sincerest congratulations.”

He meditated. Fasted, then meditated some more. 

The almost-scent of salt and amber haunted him. Days passed and he grew increasingly unsettled.

Something must be done.

“Sam, I am sorry.” Rosamonde’s voice rang clear with regret and sincerity. “I was upset - it is no excuse, to use my distress against you. My apologies - _please,_ forgive my rudeness.”

“Of course,” he assured her across the open air, “if you will forgive me my stubbornness.”

“No, it was _I_ who was wrong. You have your reasons,” she often said, over the years - how had he missed the longing there for so long, “and our friendship, it does not hinge on -”

“Dearest,” he interrupted. “These many years, our friendship has hinged upon _you_. You gave kindness to a stranger until he became a friend, lent your courage and strength until they became his own. All of yourself, you offered and shared. That I did not share myself equally will always be my sincerest regret.”

“Sam?” 

All of herself, and he’d not even given her his real name, because, “I am a stubborn, old rat,” he admitted bitterly, “who used caution to mask his fear. I would face that now, because I fear that, not doing so would - yet I _may still_ lose your trust and regard.” It grew harder to articulate, with his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. “You move me to admiration and the deepest fondness,” he confessed. “Your friendship has been one of the greatest blessings in my life, and whatever may happen, know I will treasure it always.”

“This -” Dark worry bloomed around the edge of her words. “This sounds like it is _good-bye_.”

“I would like to say _hello_.” It was now, or it would never be. “Would I still be welcome?”

There was a breath, a still moment.

But then barked a laugh like crying; he felt it as if it had exploded from his own chest. “ _Yes._ ” Slender fingers, her whole body shook as the words choked from her. “I would - I would like that very much.”

“Please close your eyes.” It took every ounce of mastery over his body to channel calm, embody it. “I will join you on the balcony shortly.”

When she was a child, she believed in fairy tales. Not the gentle, modern sort: the kind with teeth, though his weren’t overly long. If she’d been expecting something like the woodcuttings from _La Belle et la Bête_ , she was to be disappointed.

Those dark, round eyes flashed with dejection. “No! It is - I am _relieved_.” Her fingertips trailed his jaw, the soft greying fur there. Such a strange face, though not so _very_ foreign. Perhaps she’d tell him, one day. 

For now, she fought both grinning and salting her own cheeks. Yet those dark eyes searched her as if awaiting rejection. Or worse. “Do you know,” she aimed for a light teasing, “I like a beard on a man. It makes him look distinguished.”

That made his whiskers twitch with a smile, which he was quick to school into a neutral expression. “I am glad I do not disappoint.”

“ _Mon cher,_ you could never.” 

A heavy hand lifted - a paw - so very slowly. Those strange fingers covered her hand to his cheek. He was trembling, yet not looking away. It was so good, to see him so clearly and to finally, _finally say_ \- “ _’allo,_ Sam. _Enchante._ ”

Remorse chased his brow. “I am called Splinter.”

“Oh.” She wet her lips, considering, but couldn’t bring herself to relinquish the touch just yet. “That will take some getting used to, I think.”

It shook from him _that laugh_ , so _close_ , and pure and true. It lifted her heart.

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder and listened joyfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore what life Splinter might have outside of the Lair. He's a father, a sage, a warrior, but he's always struck me as perhaps a bit lonely. I wondered what would be found in the world-up-there, what would call to him most, and with whom he would wish to share it.


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda  
> A tail, or the closing section appending a movement

Some months later, she confessed: “With how tall your sons are - I confess I worried we would not fit.”

“Your fears were unfounded. Our fit, it is _superlative_.”

She chuckled at his wry, intimate tone as much as the dull, black claws soothing over her spine. “I mean, for embrace.”

That “ _hmmm”_ vibrated beneath her cheek, not at all convinced, and how she laughed - no, _she made a giggle_ , like a young girl - “ _L'étreinte! This!_ ”

“Ah, _this_ embrace. Of course,” he teased. “You have reflected much on the matter?”

If ever there was a time to disclose it, it was this. “Do you know, the shadows of the roof? They do not… fold as deeply as they once did.”

His touch stuttered for a beat as he mulled that over. “Hmm.”

“Did _you_ wonder? Back then?”

Those claws resumed their tender strokes, and the quiet eddy of his thoughts flowed. She stretched her cheek for a cooler spot on his chest. Fur on bare skin was at first a bit strange, but she delighted in the perfection while he hummed. “I hardly dared to hope,” he answered, full of quiet longing. “This,” he stroked up her neck, “and this,” claws sifted through her hair to trail the ribbons over his shoulder, “and this,” he brushed the curve of her brow, “were beyond my imagination. Nevermind, _this_ embrace.”

Rubbing her face into his shoulder, she felt the brush of his nose answer dry across her cheek. It felt like a goodnight kiss: his words, less so. “Would you care to explore the matter further?” he asked.

“Very much.” _Another giggle_. He made her feel like a girl again, very much in love. “At great length.”

That regal voice chuckled richly against her skin. Those strong arms came around her, and - no, fit was not a problem, not at all.


End file.
